


Hey, Dead Dad

by AwFuckWhatDoIPutHere



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Is A Sassy Little Shit, Dead Alexander Hamilton, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, How Do I Tag, I Care Even Less About The Timeline Than The Musical, We Die Like Men, Written From Phillips Perspective, idk - Freeform, maybe? - Freeform, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwFuckWhatDoIPutHere/pseuds/AwFuckWhatDoIPutHere
Summary: Alexander dies during the war, shot through the chest at the Battle of Yorktown. Now, Philip has to grow up with a deceased father who it seems like everyone just tries to forget. But why can't they just see, that it's not going to help pushing everything away.It seems like no one is going to help him, so he takes matters into his own hands.And one day, while exploring his grandfather's office, he finds an old, heavy, book it seems like no one has touched for over a decade.He opens the first page, it has five words written on it.For my son.A. Ham.I will 100% continue this story! It will just be very, very slowly.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay okay I know he wouldn't actually have written "For my son" since he didn't know what gender the baby was going to be, because they obviously didn't have ultrasound back then. However, in the musical, Alexander and Eliza just seems to magically know the baby is going to be a boy. So I'm sticking to that magic shit they've got going on.

_Throb._

His head was spinning, and he felt like his entire chest was on fire.  
He was pretty sure he was leaning against something, not one hundred percent, though. He could just have fallen over on the ground.  
No, when he moved his back, he could feel the rough surface of bricks scraping against it. So he was definitely sitting up.  
He tried to remember what had happened, but he could only remember the blurry details.  
It had started out fine, his plan had worked. However, when they got into the actual battle, it had been pure chaos. He was pretty sure he had seen the gun of a redcoat pointed towards someone… important. He couldn’t remember who, ironically. So, he had done what he usually did, and acted without a moments hesitation, throwing himself in front of the bullet. Great, just great.  
Next thing he knew, he was here, bleeding out on the ground. Surrounded by sounds of fighting and men, good men, who he’d fought with, yell battle cries through the battlefield.

_Throb._

He stayed like that for a bit, rethinking all the decisions that had led to this moment. Ironically, if the hurricane never hit, he might’ve still been on that damned island. Nah, if this was how it ended, this was how it ended. He might not have made the legacy he had hoped for, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it now.  
Besides, he had a feeling that even if he had survived this battle, he was just going to bite the dust a similar way or another. At least now, he had something to carry on his legacy.

_Throb._

Wait, what was that?  
In the mid of the chaos, it was like a tiny white square was being thrown around.  
The white flag.  
The redcoats' white flag…  
They’d done it, they’d won the war!  
Around him, the other men, who were still fighting for their lives, seemed to be noticing the same thing. Some were simply stopping with whatever they were doing, just staring with disbelief at the sign of their victory, and he’d probably laughed at their expressions, or worn a similar one. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was pretty sure his throat was blocked by his own blood.  
Goddammit we did it.  
He could die content now, knowing he had given everything for this country, his country, that they had all fought so fiercely for.  
His legacy would continue. Sure, Laurens might be sad for a while, but he could continue his work against slavery. And, Alexander had already told his best friend about his financial plan and everything he put into it. John had all the notes he needed.  
Washington might be upset after his passing, and the words I need you alive quickly flashed through his mind. But, he had given it his all. It just wasn’t enough.  
Throb.  
His heart twisted itself when he suddenly remembered something that couldn’t just be excused with a snarky comment.

_Oh I’m so sorry, I'm so sorry, my poor Betsy._

His poor wife was pregnant with his child, their son.  
But, he had left something for them, hadn’t he?  
Even though he had at first tried to reassure himself he wouldn’t die, he had still written that book. That book, with everything his son would need to learn from his father. It was nothing, compared to a real, living father. But it was what he could do. Thousands of pages full of whatever he felt he should write for his son. He had placed it on Washington’s desk, with a note describing to send it back to his wife, just in case he was going to die. Then, Eliza could give it to their child, and he’d have done everything he could.  
Eliza and their child would have a good life, he told himself.  
She was from a high-class family, and he knew how much Angelica loved her. They wouldn’t need anything.  
He just wished that he could have been there for them.

As he closed his eyes, he could hear the cheers of the men around him.

_The world turned upside down..._


	2. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grief following Alexander's death hits hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look a chapter where I actually kind of know what I'm doing!

John Laurens was having the time of his life. They had won. Won the war. They were a free country, and his campaign with the slaves had been a major  success. The only downside  after they had won was a small ambush from British redcoats who had not yet been informed that the war was over , which they had  pushed back with only a few casualties.  There was still a long way to go for the slaves , but this was a victory they needed desperately. 

He didn’t even think about  his friends in Yorktown. Not before that damned letter arrived.

“John?”   
He looked up from his desk, where he had been writing a report to the general at Martha. His wife was standing in the doorframe between the hallway and his office, and she had a gloomy look on her face.   
He may not love her, but they had a mutual respect and a shared love for their daughter. That way, he could tell when something was wrong. And right now, things were very, very wrong.   
Dammit. It had only been a week since the end of the war. Things were supposed to stay good, not come crashing down over him like this, all so suddenly.   
”Yes? What is it?”   
”There’s a letter to you from Yorktown.”    
Her voicewascoated with empathy, but for now, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was just about the war.   
“It’s from one of my friends, I’ll read it later” It was true, he would read it as soon as he had finished his report.   
_It’s probably_ _from Alexander,_ he thought to himself, _he would probably share it as soon as news of the enemy’s surrender was announced._   
“John...” Martha’s voice was nothing but a whisper.   
“It’s not. It’s a death report.”   
He froze.   
Nothing could have prepared ever prepared him from this. Somewhere far away, he could hear his own voice, saying _Will you read it for me?_ But really, he was floating somewhere far away. He had completely distanced himself from the world.   
His wife read the letter.   
“On October 19, 1781, Alexander Hamilton was killed a few hours before the official surrender of the British. He is buried here, until his wife can send for his remains. We have been informed that you and Hamilton stood each other near, and so you will probably feel the grief of his loss.”

He couldn’t think. The thoughts flew around in his head without end, tangling into messes of words and emotions.   
Alexander was _dead,_ this wasn’t like the Schuylkill incident. They had found his body; he was _buried_ there.   
“John, are you alright?”   
He turned away from his wife to hide the tears in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, and barely stifled.   
“Just... give me some time.”

* * *

He couldn’t believe it.   
Why hadn’t he protected him? Why didn’t he make sure that Alexander had been safe? He had been far too caught up in the terms of the British surrender that he hadn’t even thought about the boy.   
The boy, who was _dead_ now. He had lost another child. A child he had promised himself to protect at all costs.    
Then, it all got worse, because he remembered the letter that Alexander’s wife had sent him. The letter that had made him send the boy home in the first place. Not only had he caused his son’s death, he had also robbed him of the opportunity to ever meet his _own_ son. Now, Alexander had left behind a widow and a fatherless child.

The message had been delivered by Lafayette, who had just quietly placed in on George’s desk. When he thought back now, he remembered the haunted look in the Marquis’ eyes, and the overwhelming silence from the man who had been such a close friend of Alexander.   
After reading the message, he had excused himself from his office, and had went to his personal quarters.   
There, he had just stared at the package Alexander had left on his desk in his hands. His boy had made sure to know it was him that delivered it, evidenced by the card with _Washington_ written in big, bold letters on its front.That card hadn’t meant anything, it just had his own name and then Alexander’s written in smaller text under it.    
The book felt unbelievably heavy in his hands, and it wasn’t only because of its size and thickness. On the outside, it didn’t look like much. Covered in leather and with thin pages, it didn’t immediately jump to one’s attention. But now, it was the only thing left of the boy who had been his son in everything other than blood.   
He hadn’t thought much of it until then, but now, with Alexander gone, he had to strengthen the last memory he had of the boy as much as he possibly could.   
However, when he opened the first page, a letter fell out and slowly fell to the floor.    
After a moment of shock, he picked it up, and looked at what was written on it.   
_For_ _G_ _eneral_ _George_ _Washington._ _In case that I do_ _not_ _make it out alive._   
He opened it.

_ Dear General _

_I can assume, that because you are reading these words now, you know that I have passed on from this life. Do not be_ _sad, we will all be called in by the Lord when our time comes, though I do hope that you won’t be joining me anytime soon._ _I just hope you will be able to live your life without thinking too much of me._   
_Though I do not wish to go already, I do not fear death. I have always said that I am living on borrowed time, after all._ _I just wish that my dear Elizabeth will be able to raise our son_ _alone._   
_And as for you, General, I do hope that you will be able to shape this country into the home I wish I had in the Caribbean growing up._   
_If this letter makes it to you, then I can safely conclude that I will not be able to build my own legacy. But I do_ _hope that you can fulfil the last wish of a dead man._   
_If you could perhaps send this book to my father-in-law's house in Albany,_ _then that would make me extraordinarily pleased, as this is the_ _book_ _I have written for my unborn ch_ _ild._

_ Alexander Hamilton. _

His tears dotted the paper with tiny dark splotches of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so in the next one we will get to the actual story. I didn't include Eliza's reaction because I more want to show her grief during the later stages of this story. And also, sorry, because I absolutely suck at writing letters from the seventeenth century. 
> 
> I promise that this story won't die! I just suck at getting motivated!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave comments! I know it sounds super cheesy, but everything is appreciated!


	3. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza goes through the first stage of grief like z o o m, and does some pretty regrettable stuff in the second.

Phillip’s mom had always told him that he was a special child. That he was gifted, and that he should use his talents to help those who weren’t as lucky as him.   
His mom taught him how to play piano, how to speak French, and how to walk and write.    
His aunt Angelica taught him about all the things that went on in the world, about the new nation his people had created for their children, including him.    
His family taught him so many things, and sometimes it was like they put the world at his disposal. They gave him all their love. They gave him a roof over his head. Everything he could ever wish for, they gave him.

But there was always something he was missing. It was this... empty feeling he got in his stomach whenever he saw men walking hand in hand with their wives, or every time he observed a father teaching his son how to shoot a pistol.    
He felt it every time his friends would tell him about all the great things their fathers did. All the important jobs they had. All the adventures and the great achievements their fathers had claimed during the war.

He missed a father to call his own.

So, one day, when his aunt and her husband had come to his grandfather’s house for dinner, he  made his decision .

They were in the middle of the main dish, when he cleared his throat in mimic of what he had seen his grandfather do so many times over the years, whenever he was about to say something important.   
All eyes at the dining table turned to him, and he suddenly felt like he wanted to crawl into a mousehole and never show his face again. But at last, he took a deep breath and spoke.    
“Mom?”   
Eliza immediately shifted all her focus to her son.   
“Yes, my love?”   
Phillip swallowed the lump that had built its way up in his throat, and finally said what had been on his mind for so long.   
“Where is my father?”   
Although he couldn’t understand why, he immediately felt the atmosphere of the room shift. His mom took her face in her hands, his aunt pinched her nose and let out a deep sigh. His grandmother suddenly got a gloomy look on her face, and his aunt’s husband and his grandfather both suddenly seemed to find the tablecloth and the silverware extremely interesting.   
His mom took a shaky breath, and he could hear something wet in it, and in a moment of terror, he realized that she was crying.   
His aunt quickly got up and walked over to her sister. She hugged her and pushed a rogue lock of hair behind her ear while she hushed on her sister’s quiet sobs.   
While all of this was going on, Phillip just sat completely oblivious in his chair, not knowing what to say.   
His aunt turned around to face her father and loudly said:   
“If you would excuse us for a moment?”   
His grandfather nodded, and his mom and aunt hurried out of the room.

The rest of dinner went by in complete silence, the mourning mood never changing. Even the servants seemed to understand that something was wrong, because they scurried around the corners. Afraid that the spotlight would fall on them.   
Finally, Phillip couldn’t take it anymore, he got up from his chair, the rest of his dinner still untouched on his plate.    
“Thank you for the food. I’ll be gone now.”   
With that, he stormed out of the room.

Phillip still didn’t understand what had happened, but he still felt shameful. It was him that made his own _mother_ cry for god’s sake!   
Lost in his own thoughts, he found himself just mindlessly wandering around the house, looking for something to distract him.    
And that was exactly what he found.   
Somehow, he had ended up wandering all the way to the top floor of the house, to the hallway that with a creaking staircase let up to the attic, which as far as Phillip knew, no one had been in since the day he _was born._   
However, a quiet, chill attic full of old stuff to distract him from his thoughts sounded just like what he needed right now.   
When he crawled up the narrow staircase, he was careful not to get any splinters.    
The attic was dark except for a dusty window to his right, and the light illuminated what seemed to him like endless shelves and chests full of all kinds of stuff.    
He went over to the nearest shelf, and let his fingers run over dozens of dusty books on the shelf.    
Mindlessly, he drew a heart on the back of the book closest to him. A moment later, he plucked the book down from the shelf and opened it.   
It quickly became apparent to him, that no matter how gifted of a child he was, there was no way he could ever translate these unreadable scribbles that seemed like they were written in a completely different language. So, he placed the book back on its shelf after blowing some of the dust away from its cover.   
Next, he picked up a lighter book from another shelf and blew the dust away from its cover.   
On the front, there was a picture of a man in ragged clothing with the sea behind him, looking over the horizon. The man was standing on what looked like a homemade raft, and above the picture, the words _Robinson Crusoe_ stood in big, bold letters. At the bottom of the cover, in smaller letters, the name _Daniel Defoe_ stood in smaller letters.   
Phillip opened, fascinated, the book’s first page, and wandered over to a corner of the attic, where a deep green armchair stood, almost forgotten. He threw himself into the chair, and to his delight, he found a candle and matches on a small table next to the chair.   
He lit the candle, made sure his hair didn’t catch on fire, and began reading the book. 

While Phillip was reading in the attic, trying to distance himself from his thoughts, Angelica was trying to comfort her grieving sister.   
“Hey, Eliza, dear, look at me.”   
But her sister didn’t look at her, she just kept sobbing and tearing her hair. It painfully reminded Angelica of the day the letter informing of Alexander’s death had arrived. And wasn’t that what her sister was going through again? The pain of her husband’s death all over again.   
Angelica remembered the night following Alexander’s death. Her sister had started by simply screaming for hours for Alexander to come home. Her mother had advised Angelica to let her sister be, she had seen wives grieve their husbands before, she promised it would get better. They just had to wait.   
Angelica had been hesitant at first, but finally gave in and did as her mother said.

It didn’t get better.

When the screaming from Eliza’s room finally stopped, and Angelica knocked on the door, she wasn’ t at all prepared for what she saw.

“ _Eliza?”_   
_No response._   
_“I know you’re in there. It’s me.”_   
_Still silence._   
_“I know it’s bad, but please,_ _if you want a hug, then let me in.”_ _Now, she found that tears were streaming from her own eyes._   
_“_ _Let us help you. Let. me. help you._ _”_   
_Eliza didn’t answer, and she felt a growing gut feeling that something was_ ** _wrong_** _with her sister. Was it the child?_   
_Finally, she decided that Eliza’s security was more important than her privacy, and she pushed the door open._

 _Her sister was facing away from the door_ _. B_ _ut_ _,_ _seeing what her sister was doing made Angelica gasp in surprise, and just a tiny b_ _it terror._   
_All around her sister, like some sort of bizarre carpet, were torn paper. It was building up, and she_ _could see it almost reached Eliza’s_ _ankles_ _._   
_Her sister herself was standing in a torn white nightgown. With the candle from the attic in her_ _right hand, and to Angelica’s horror, she saw her sister_ _lead a piece of torn paper into the_ _flame with a sadistic smile._   
**_“burn...”_**   
_Eliza didn’t even seem to realize that her sister was in the room. But Angelica acted, nonetheless._   
_She stormed to her sister’s side, and without thinking of anything_ _, slapped the candle out of her hand._   
_Turns out, that was a bad idea._   
_The paper on the floor immediately caught fire, and all Angelica could do was pull her sister back from the raging inferno_ _. Angelica called for help, and her sister just stared at the flames with an emp_ _ty look, not saying a thing._

 _Everyone quickly arrived, but by then, the fire had already mostly died out, leaving only_ _ash and burnt paper in its stead, since it hadn’t been big enough to pull anything other than the paper itself into the flames_ _._ _The candle was returned to the attic, and all that was left now was to clean up._  
_One of the servants took over Eliza_ _and escorted her to another room to sleep. Meanwhile, Angel_ _ica waved of_ _a servant who tried to go into the room to clean it._   
_“I’m responsible for this mess,” she said, “I should be the one to clean it up.”_   
_She got out a broom and potato sack and began on her mission._   
_But s_ _omehow,_ _one little piece of paper had made it._   
_She_ _picked it up from the floor and read it with curiosity. Because what had made her dear, calm sister turn into a literal pyromaniac_ _?_   
_When she read it, her heart shattered into a million pieces._

_ The top of the letter was torn right off, but it was still possible to read the bottom of the paper. _ _ It was a simple goodbye, but yet it held so much meaning. _

_ I will be home for you soon enough, and then I can meet our son. _

_ -Your husband, Alexander Hamilton. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sick, and had a lot of time on my hands without school for a single day. I'm pretty proud of myself for getting anything done.


	4. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza does more regrettable things and makes some stupid decisions in the second stage of grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how satisfied I am with this chapter, but I promise you, I have some kind of story planned out for this story. Just be patient with me, please? I promise we'll get to the good stuff (at some point)

George watched as the whiskey in his glass swirled around in a tiny maelstrom. Every year on the same day as he had lost his second child, he would lock himself in his office, hiding from anyone or anything that might disturb him. 

Of course, he still grieved over both Jacky and Patsy. However, that felt different to him.   
Because even though he had felt the loss of his other children just as hard as he felt the loss of Alexander, he still felt like he could have saved the boy. 

Even though he still felt her loss like an open hole in his stomach, he always knew that he would outlive Patsy. She had been sickly from the moment he met her, right until the day she died. He had just hoped she would have lived a little longer than seventeen years. 

Jacky’s death had been so quick that he still felt like he still lived in denial, just one month, and _boom_. His oldest son was gone.   
But after that, he still had Jacky’s children. They were as much his children as Jacky had been. Seeing them run around Mount Vernon, he could sometimes still fall back into the illusion that nothing had changed. That he had still just married Martha, and none of his life’s tragedies had fallen upon him just yet. 

Then, there was Alexander.   
Because he still had a screaming gut feeling that he could have saved the boy’s life. If he had just been more insisting when the boy had said he wanted his own command.   
If he had just been a better man, a better _father,_ then maybe his boy would still be out there. George almost smiled when he imagined Alexander hurling insults at his enemies and picking a fight with whomever looked at him the wrong way. If he had just protected the boy... 

Then maybe Alexander would still be with them. 

Then maybe Alexander’s wife would have let him see the boy who was just as much his grandchild as Alexander had been his son. 

* * *

In November of 1782, one year after the war had ended, he had sent a letter to Elizabeth Hamilton.   
He had explained his relation to Alexander, and how he knew from the letter that the young widow had sent him during the war about requesting for him to send her husband home, that Eliza much have recently given birth to his former aide’s son.   
He had also asked if it would be possible for him to give a personal visit, to see his aide’s son with his own eyes. 

For others, that might have been a strange request. But everyone around him knew how close George had been to Alexander, and therefore why he would wish to see the child of his boy. 

It had been four weeks before he got a response. 

_George Washington_

_It has been an honour_ _,_ _that you have reached out to me with your recent letter. You were right in your speculations, as I gav_ _e birth to my son earlier this year._   
_However, I am also afraid that you can under no circumstances see him._   
_You see, ever since_ _the day_ _my poor husband died, I have come to a conclusion._   
_I seek to cut all connections from my husband’s life, due to the fact that I directly_ _believe his death w_ _as_ _caused by these connections. And I am afraid that if my son would grow up with knowledge of his father’s life, he would end up getting killed bec_ _ause of_ _it_ _._   
_As you see,_ _I cannot bear_ _the thought of losing_ _my only child._ _So, e_ _ven if this may seem to you like a foolish decision, er_ _asing every part of Alexander from_ _our lives_ _then I believe that it will be the best for me and my family in the long run_ _._   
_Because t_ _he risk of losing my son is not one that I am willing to take._   
_You must not take this rejection personally, as I respect you a great deal, but there have already been others who have reached out to me_ _, and they have all been rejected the same as you._   
_I am terribly sorry, but I must ask of you that you will never contact me, or my family, ever again._   
_I hope you have a good life, general._   
_-Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton_ _._

That night, he locked himself in his office and thought about if he would ever forgive himself for the death of his son. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive of feedback! Because I have no fucking idea what I am doing right now!


	5. A Big Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip finds the book.
> 
> And...
> 
> Oh look! I'm alive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for being this late!
> 
> Also I finally figured out how to spell Philip's name!

Philip hated the warmth. 

He had always preferred chill, dark places. Like their attic back home. But his grandfather’s summer estate was the exact opposite of that. 

The summer heat felt like it was dragging him down. While his family spent their time sitting in the garden, letting maids bring them everything they could ask for, he secretly snuck into the house again, searching for anything that didn’t painfully remind him that there was still two months left of summer. 

At home, he remembered hearing whispers through the walls when his mom thought he was sleeping. Whispers of the mess the government had panned out for them. He didn’t really understand what was going on, but he still understood that whatever was happening seemed important. 

There was no one inside the house, not even the cleaning ladies, who his grandfather had let go for the day, so Philip had the house to himself. 

He enjoyed finding old journals from his grandfather’s life in the military. He gushed over the old musket, hanging above the old fireplace, that Philip Sr. Had told him he used to fight hand to hand.   
But eventually, he got tired of searching through old antiques, and began searching for a place to engage in his favourite activity. 

Reading. 

That was why he preferred the house back home. With time, the attic became _his. His_ place. Where no one could tell him, what was right or wrong. What he should and shouldn’t do. 

He just hoped that this house had another place he could claim as his own, or the summer was going to be even more horrible than before. 

And he found what he was looking for. 

Instead of an attic, he pushed open a heavy door made of dark wood, with cobwebs splitting as the door seemed to welcome him home.   
The room reminded him of his beloved attic, except a _lot_ dustier.   
He could barely make out the colour of the furniture, that was how thick of a layer of dust coated the room.   
_How long ago was someone even in here?_ He asked himself, as he managed to push open a window and let some fresh air in.   
The sunlight fell on a lonely bookcase at the back of the room, and Philip thought: _Ah, what the hell. A sign from God, I guess._

However, when he looked closer, he saw that one book stood out from the others.   
For one, it was thicker than the others, and the pages were yellowed from age. But when he took it out of the bookshelf and opened a random page, he saw that the entire book was hand-written too.   
Curious, he opened the first page of the book. 

_For my son._

_A. Ham._

Philip almost dropped it. 

* * *

A few minutes later, he sat on the ground with the heavy book. Still in shock.   
_This_ _has to_ _be a dream._ He told himself.   
Because he knew that name. It was his own. Or at least the short version of it. But he didn’t know anyone in their family, with the last name ‘Hamilton’ and a first name that began with _A._ So that meant it could only be _one_ thing. 

When he opened the first page, it felt like a fever dream. 

He didn’t understand half the words on the pages, but it still felt like he’d died and gone to heaven. Because every thought. Every coherent sentence. They all pulled him closer to a man he’d never even met. To someone who it felt like had just been _erased_ from existence, and yet, lived on through these pages in front of him.   
There were pages full of old stories, that felt like they belonged in one of his novels back home.   
One page was filled with descriptions and detailed drawings of guns, seemingly explaining how to take apart and clean them, but that was too much for Philip to handle. 

No, he preferred just letting his eyes swoop over the parchment, and take in every bit of information he could comprehend.   
The way the o’s were swung, how he formed a sentence. All the small things that felt like they made up a man in his mind. A man who sat by his side, and turned the pages in front of him, explaining every single bit of information written down. 

“Philip?” His mother yelled for him.   
Suddenly, the magic was broken.   
“Philip, darling, where are you?” She yelled, more insisting now.   
What would his mother say if she found out about this? If anyone found out about it?   
With a jab of pain in the heart, he remembered the night he’d discovered the attic. He still didn’t understand what’d happened, or what his mother would think about this. 

All he knew was that she could never see the book. 

Quickly, he managed to get it back where he’d found it, making sure to move a chair to cover the marks left behind in the dust.   
“I’m coming mom!” He yelled, and only took one last glance at where the book was hidden, before he stormed into the hallway and towards where his mother had yelled from. 

“Oh, Philip,” His mother laughed when he stormed into her.   
She embraced him in a hug, and led a stray piece of curly hair behind his ear again.   
“We were worried you’d run into the forest! Make sure to tell us next time you go on one of your adventures, okay?” Looking up, his mom’s smile was as comforting and familiar as ever, but now, he couldn’t help but notice the flash of pain in her eyes, gone in a second.   
“Okay, mom.” 

At summer’s end, when they finally headed back to New York, Philip had made sure that his father’s book was stashed deep in his bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told ya I'd be back!
> 
> (And now I've actually kind of figured the story out, thank god)


	6. Update!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit

You couldn't live with your own ~~failure~~ Writers Block from Coming Home Once Again

And where did that bring you?

Back to me.


	7. Piano Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip has to make sure that she will never find the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am back!  
> Told ya that this fic wasn't abandoned.  
> (But you are probs gonna have to wait more :( )

After the book’s introduction ,  Philip didn’t understand  a single word f or the next ten or so pages.

For one, they looked like someone had written an entire essay, crossed it out, crumbled the page, and then couldn’t bring themselves to actually tear it out.   
He tried to smooth out the old paper as best as he could, but in the end, he could only make out a few words on each page, and even those seemed impossible to understand for him.

I t w a s a f t e r t h a t, that he began to understand what kind of man his father had been.

Of course, it wasn’t until much later that Philip actually understood the content of the pages. That he understood just how much his father had saved for him.   
For now, all he did was mindlessly turn through the pages, gush over the many drawings of landscapes, buildings, and animals alike.

At home, Philip had had his own room since he was seven, so it  was easy to sneak  the book to the attic, and hiding it, without attracting too much attention from neither the staff, nor  from his own mother.

Philip found himself sneaking up to the attic even more often than he had before that fateful summer visit. He was always careful to look out for maids, or any of his family.   
The ones who noticed his absence the most, were probably his younger aunts and uncles.   
Of course, the Schuyler mansion was big, but that didn’t mean having a million other children who always teased him with being the youngest along with Catherine, could get annoying very fast.   
Thankfully, the good side of having so many relatives around meant that he was never the center of attention, either, and so it was relatively easy to sneak away.

Philip was a smart kid.   
He knew that his mother worked for the family. No one had outright told it to him, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out for a nine-year-old, that if his mother sat at a desk all day, and mumbled about finances in her sleep, she had some kind of job.    
Maybe not a job outside the Schuyler estate, but some kind of job, nonetheless.    
He knew that that meant, that the best time to sneak up to the attic would be after dinnertime, where no one would come look for him unexpectedly, and where he could practically spend as much time as he needed, as long as he had a candle with him.   
However, what he _also_ knew was that if he let himself get caught up in the book, became more and more distant from his family, it would only be a matter of time before somebody put the puzzle pieces together.

And so, he began playing piano with his mother.

Of course, his mother had been playing for as long as he could remember, sometimes he even took a book from the attic, and listened to her play while he read. But he’d never actually participated in it himself. Of course, he loved his mother, but until now he’d also felt like it was enough with school, private tutors , and even language lessons twice a week from Eliza Schuyler herself.

* * *

The day he’d first asked her to teach him, it’d been a rainy fall evening and his mother had still been working.

Philip slowly opened the heavy wooden door that led to the main hall, and peaked inside the chamber where his grandfather kept most of the house’s paperwork.   
And the room where it _also_ happened that his mother had begun spending most of her time.

“Mom?”   
Eliza’s head immediately snapped upwards, and she placed the quill in her hand on the already stained wooden table, intertwining her fingers and placing her elbows on the table.   
“Sweetheart? What brings you in here, I thought you were reading?”   
Philip grinned in a sheepish way, and briefly, he saw a hint of sadness in his mother's eyes, before they were replaced by curiosity once again. He didn’t think much of it.   
“I just wanted to ask you something. Because you’ve been... working, more than usual, I mean.”   
“Of course honey, come over to me and talk. Oh, and close the door behind you, the draught is pulling me papers off the table.”   
Hurriedly, he did as she said, and sat down on the chair she pulled out for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Philip caught a glimpse of what his mother had been working on. Something about money. And a letter.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”   
Philip gulped, and hoped she didn’t notice.   
“Can you teach me piano?”

Eliza blinked, visibly stunned by the question.   
“I-I... It’s just that, I haven’t seen you that much. And you’ve been working- and I... I just wanted to-”   
Philip quickly realized he was babbling, but didn’t manage to correct it. Not before she moved a finger to her mouth, and shushed him from across the room.

Somehow, it made him go completely silent. Like it always did. This was something his mother had been doing for as long as he could remember, but there wasn’t a single time he didn’t o bey her. He probably never would. She was just too important.

Briefly, he saw his mother scoot over on the wide chair. And, after a second of silence, she patted down for him to sit next to her.

Hurriedly, he half-ran, half-walked to her side, and before he knew it, she was sitting with her arm draped around his shoulders, paperwork shoved aside, and a kind  smile on her face.

“How about you start again, sweetheart? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

And he did. He told her everything he wanted to. Explained how he’d seen her fingers dance over the piano when she sat in the big living room. How he wanted to learn too.

He felt the air constrict in his throat. Afraid that she’d caught the lies, and half-hidden truths in what he’d said. Afraid that she knew that he was hiding som ething.

But if she did, she didn’t let it show. Just tightened her arm around his shoulders and gave him her brightest, most loving smile she could muster.

“Of course, sweetheart.”   
“Of course I’ll teach you.”

And Philip let out a sigh of relief, knowing the book was safe.

For now, at least, because little Philip had no idea what that book would pull him into. The rift it would tear in his life.   
But he didn’t have to worry about that.   
Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! Especially what I can improve. I want this fic to be practice for writing an actual story for me, so please give feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any mistakes! Sorry for the formatting! I just can't figure this computer out. Feel free to leave constructive criticism, or just a comment at all.


End file.
